


Now that I get you

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Series: How it should feel when it's meant to be [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-02
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:19:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"My mother loved Meril,” Arthur points out. “Remind me what I'm doing with you again?" </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In which Arthur ruminates on his choices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now that I get you

Arthur still goes into work, hungover as fuck and miserable with it. Serious errors in judgement were made, last night obviously, but also this morning. Namely when his alarm went off and he'd forced himself out of bed and into the shower with motivational thoughts about manning up, pushing through, about pain being in the mind.

In retrospect, he was an idiot.

He runs out of motivation quickly. It's hard to use his time productively when all his concentration is devoted to holding back his moans as the contents of his stomach lurch and his head pounds in counterpoint. 

It only takes about an hour before he admits defeat and gives the day up as a waste. He drops his head down on his desk with a thud. Fucking tequila. Never again. 

The bell over the door chimes, signaling Eames' reappearance; he breezes in past Saba's empty desk with his hands full, a drink caddy of coffee cups in one and a white paper sack stained with grease in the other. He pulls up a chair next to Arthur instead of the at the desk across from him, their thighs and elbows jostling together as Eames pushes up to the table, depositing his haul. Arthur quickly pushes his notes to the other side of the desk, saving them from Eames' messy eating habits. It's not like he was using them anyway.

It's possible that Arthur doesn't look as bad as he feels, enough that Eames doesn't immediately call attention to it, just yawns hugely and digs his breakfast out of the bag. Arthur is fine, he's rallying. Or he's at least pretty sure that the danger that he might throw up in the wastebasket under his desk has passed. Just as long as he keeps breathing through his mouth, keeping each inhale slow and shallow. And doesn't watch as Eames takes a bite of his breakfast sandwich, Jesus Christ. He closes his eyes, swallowing hard.

Eames notices that part, of course, lifting an eyebrow, making a show of nudging his bag of fried goods further downwind of Arthur, wiping his mouth neatly on a napkin.

"Poor darling," Eames says, amused, as one of his hands sneaks down to rub little soothing circles across Arthur's stomach. "Not that that wasn't a fetching shade of green you just turned but wouldn't you be more comfortable back at the hotel?" 

He punctuates the question with a quick kiss to the top of Arthur's ear, easy as always with his affection, even though it's not something they usually do at work, the whole - 'cutesy couple' thing. But that's always been more Arthur's rule than Eames'. Normally this is the point where Arthur would roll his eyes, tell Eames to knock it off. But today Arthur doesn't bother. For right now it's just the two of them here; with Saba in Minsk until Thursday. No one's going to see. So it's not a big deal if Arthur lets Eames shuffle in a little too close, practically in Arthur's chair with him, his arm draped over the back. Or that he's wearing one of Arthur's old t-shirts that somehow found its way into their luggage. He's stretching the hell out of it too, to the point where he's practically indecent, the white material pulled tight enough that the dark circles of Eames' nipples and all three tattoos on Eames' chest are visible. Not that Arthur's any better. He'd forced himself out of bed, but had drawn the line at slim fit trousers and a waistcoat. He'd thrown on a plaid shirt that all too obviously used to be one of Eames', Arthur's practically swimming in it. Not to mention the visible bite marks and beard burn stinging on his neck every time he turns his head. 

It'd be disturbing, if anyone was here to see them. Arthur hates those obnoxious couple; the smug and co-dependent ones, all PDAs and pet names. Arthur refuses to be that couple. But he's nauseous and his temples are throbbing hard enough that his head is threatening to topple off of his neck, so maybe this once he can allow Eames baby him, if that's what he wants.

Arthur tries a smile then. He doesn't quite manage it and quickly gives it up. He closes his eyes instead, listing into Eames' side for a second. "Never again, Eames," Arthur says gruffly into Eames' shoulder. "Seriously, never again."

"Not your usual style, no,” Eames replies with a snort, discreetly popping another piece of his breakfast sandwich into his mouth. “What brought it on then?"

"Saba called. Nowak is in Rio until the 5th,” Arthur says, not bothering to hide his grimace. “It's going to have to be Meril."

"Ahh.” And it's almost funny how much meaning Eames manages to cram in that little sound. He sets his sandwich back down, turning his full attention on Arthur as he stands. “Come on then. Fresh air." 

Arthur rolls his eyes but allows Eames to hustle him out of his chair and across the room, holding the door open for him on their way out.

The sun has come out while Arthur has been suffering indoors. They're renting space in a quiet part of town, it's rare that they'll see anyone pass by. Even now, with the weather unseasonably warm and bright, Arthur only clocks two teenage boys on skateboards messing around in the empty car park next door.

Arthur sighs. Maybe he's being melodramatic. Or -- he knows that he's being melodramatic and can't seem to stop himself. As detail orientated as Arthur can be, he's still capable of looking at the bigger picture. There's no guarantees in life. Shit happens sometimes and it's no one's fault, really. Except that--

"I was a shit to him," Arthur says abruptly, knowing that Eames will understand what he means.

"Throwing over someone genuinely decent and kind, as well as completely fucking fit for a disreputable character such as myself? You were a complete shit. Your mother would roll over in her grave." The truth of it stings a little, especially coming from Eames, which he must realize. He catches Arthur's fingers with his own, bringing them up to his mouth, pressing soft kisses against his knuckles.

"My mother is still alive, Eames," Arthur says after a noticeable pause, twitching irritably.

Eames frowns, his brow furrowing. "Is she?" 

"My mother loved Meril,” Arthur points out. “Remind me what I'm doing with you again?" 

A skateboard has gotten away from one of the teenagers, he's run over to grab it and now he's close enough to overhear Eames say, "You're with me because no one will ever hold you down and fuck you like I can." 

The kid goes absurdly pink, and there's a sexuality crisis waiting to happen. He can barely take his eyes off of Eames long enough to snatch up his board. Eames isn't helping, his smile lush and slow, giving the kid a showy wink as the boy's friend comes to drag him away. 

Eames turns back to Arthur with a raised eyebrow, daring him to deny it. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, there's that,” he replies slowly, like he had to think about it. “And also your mouth, shoulders and ass.”

“Arthur, you say the sweetest things,” Eames murmurs, and he presses in close to kiss the under side of Arthur's jaw, just over one of the biggest bite marks, sliding his hands up the back of Arthur's shirt.

Arthur leans into it despite himself. “I could probably say more,” he notes. 

Feelings are not exactly one of his strong suits, unless it relates to sex. He's just not as good at that part of it as Eames is - Eames pulls out his chair and opens doors for him, holds Arthur's hand and introduces him to everyone he meets as his boyfriend without the slightest hint of hesitation. Eames exclusively uses “we” instead of “I” when replying to invitations or business proposals. He calls it “their” apartment even though neither of their legal names are on the lease. The worst part is that it's not an act, it's genuine. Eames is a romantic. And Arthur hated that kind of thing when he was with Meril; he'd been bored by it, how sweet and loving Meril had been. He likes it now. He doesn't know why it makes a difference that it's Eames being those things, but for him it does. 

Arthur hesitates, considering. He could just tell Eames that he has no regrets, that he's the happiest he's ever been. He would mean it. They're standing in an alley, he's dry-mouthed and queasy, and in less than 48 hours he's going to have to find a way work with his ex-boyfriend, who rightly hates him for breaking up with him and then immediately getting together with someone else. So it's not like he'll be getting any points for time and place, but still. Something needs to be said.

“Eames.” Arthur takes a deep breath. He curls his fingers around the back of Eames' neck, looking into Eames' eyes, and says, “You aren't quite the asshole I thought you'd be.” 

It's not enough, it's not nearly enough, but it doesn't matter because Eames is smiling back at him like he just handed him the world.

“Darling,” Eames says, holding Arthur tight, and Arthur knows that he understood what he meant.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](http://pluvial-poetry.tumblr.com/)


End file.
